The Ladies Grazing Society
by AnneofIdlewild
Summary: Another chain story, this time written by Alinyaalethia, Excel Aunt, Anne O' The Island, MrsVonTrapp, oz diva and finished most excellently off by OriginalMcFishie. What can I say, eschew the box.
1. Chapter 1

Alinyaalethia

And...we're off! It's completely bonkers, this round, so have fun with it, eschew the box and think in new and exotic ways :)

* * *

Matthew blinked at the almanac. There was the seeds for planting, as it should be. And the moon cycle. Nothing odd about that. Chance of rain...He blinked again. That couldn't be right. But there it was, plain as the nose on his face. 'Predictive text.' Whatever that meant. Scheduled to start making suggestions in...2019.

It made no sense. Never mind it was _years _ away. Predictive text? Due to be making suggestions? About what? To whom? He closed the book, uneasily. He was seeing things. Had to be.

But no. It was still there in the morning. An early morning, granted, but morning. The sunlight streamed pinkly through the windows. Anne would have a lovely turn of phrase for it. Anne. Now there was a thought. She had a way with strange things, didn't she? Well, Matthew would run the almanac past her, see what she made of it.

He waited until Marilla had gone out for the day. Somehow getting Marilla mixed up in the almanac conundrum with its curious phrases sat badly with him. She wouldn't like it. But Anne, well, Anne had so many strange turns of phrase of her own that it was only reasonable to ask her opinion on the almanac with its ambiguous observation, _Predictive text to start, Skype, 2019._

He watched her read it, red eyebrows knitting together in perplexity as she went.

'It says something about Skype,' she said, tilting her freckled nose upwards to look at him. 'Could it be a mistake? Did they mean Skye?'

'Could be,' said Matthew. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. 'But then,' he said, 'why is it _here_?'

'Well,' said Anne, 'it says...predictive text? Suggestions?'

'I was sort of hoping you had an idea about that,' said Matthew. Anne hummed. She said, inspired, 'You don't think it predicts the future, do you? Oh, Matthew, wouldn't it be wonderful if it did?'

Without warning she spun round to look at him, starry-eyed, hands clasped tight under her chin. 'I bet it does,' she said, nodding for emphasis. 'Oh, Matthew, I'm sure of it. What do you think it predicts?'

'Well now,' said Matthew, wishing he felt half as sure as Anne sounded, 'I don't rightly know.'

'We must find out,' said Anne, still rapturous. 'Don't you think? Oh, Matthew, I know just the person!'

He wouldn't have admitted it for worlds, but he was beginning to think he might have made a mistake, bringing the almanac to Anne. Predicting the future sounded uncomfortably like the sort of thing Marilla disapproved of.

In any event, nothing could have prepared him for Anne's next, giddy suggestion. She unclasped her hands, linked Matthew's arm in hers, declared jubilantly, 'we simply _must _talk to Mrs. Lynde, don't you think?'

Matthew did not think, but it was of no consequence. Already she was waltzing him out the door and down the lane...


	2. Chapter 2

**Excel Aunt**

* * *

"Now Anne, wait, a moment." Matthew exerted his authority and led Anne back to the door.

"Why not?" Anne cried. She was more than a little frustrated with the delay. "Mrs. Lynde knows everything about Avonlea."

"Coat," Matthew ordered. According to the almanac, it was February 30th and Old Man Winter was still awake. "You'll get sick. Marilla would say I was foolish to allow you to go without yours."

Anne was too excited to feel the brisk bite of late winter, but she fetched her wraps. He wasn't wrong about how stern Marilla could be. Suffering through Marilla's bad humor was a thing to be avoided.

Two cows were behind Lynde's gate which was a funny thing. The Lynde's had most of their cattle in their back pasture, where the shelters were better. The bony, gray one looked familiar as they approached. The bovines swished their tails and attempted to intercept Matthew and Anne along the gate.

Matthew felt a small tug at his arm and he turned to see Anne gesturing towards the two cows bawling by the fence.

"Matthew, do you suppose they're trying to tell us something?"

To their amazement, both of the cows nodded a "yes". Anne and Matthew stood nonplussed. The fatter one was more expressive with her mooing.

"Well maybe?" Matthew scratched his head. It was bizarre behavior. The thin cow seemed to grow impatient as the other cow put her head down to try a bit of wet grass she had kicked up with her hoof.

He had fifty years of experience raising cattle and seen odd behavior from cows before, but that was usually because of their maternal instincts to their calves. He didn't see any calves and the cow's udders were not bursting with milk.

"Matthew!"

Both responded to the voice of Mr. Thomas Lynde from his veranda. The cane-wielding man raised his walking implement and shouted, "Just the man I need to see. Hurry up now."

Anne dashed forward after receiving a gentle push from her guardian and was showing Mr. Lynde the strange page in what was otherwise a perfectly normal and helpful book when Matthew arrived.

"Thomas," Matthew bit his lips, nervous about what he was thinking. He had come to the audacious thought that the gray thin cow reminded him of his sister. _But that couldn't be right!_Matthew was not able to speak as he realized his hunch had merit. He used Anne's shoulder to regain his equilibrium.

"Do you know where Mrs. Lynde is?" Anne's soprano voice quizzed when she felt Matthew's hand. She took his gesture as another urge to speak on his behalf. She knew how much Matthew hated to talk.

"Yes, I think I know where Mrs. Lynde is, but..." He stared down at the eleven-year-old girl. "You must understand, that… That this isn't permanent, can't be, but, Rachel's turned into, a cow."


	3. Chapter 3

Anne O' the island

If Rachel Lynde didn't like being a cow, Marilla was enjoying it even less. She didn't know what had happened-one moment, she was coming down the lane past Rachel's pasture, and the next, she was on the other side of the fence, with two horns, four hooves, and four stomachs. And she was stark naked. It didn't take her long to figure out that the other cow-the fatter one-was Rachel, mainly because that cow was wailing how it was the End of Days and they were all going to die as cows.

As long I can go first, she thought, unconsciously taking a bite of grass. It wasn't that bad, actually-juicy, with a flavor she couldn't quite describe. Dandelion, maybe, or chard?

She looked up, only to find herself eyeball to dark brown eyeball with Rachel.

"Was there something you wanted to say, Rachel?"

"Marilla, have you been listening to anything I've been saying? Anything? We've been turned into cattle! Providence has turned us into cows! We're animals!"

"We were animals before this, Rachel," Marilla reminded her none too gently, "just not the four-legged kind."

The other cow's eyes stretched, if at all possible, wider. "There's nothing in the Bible about being turned into cows! How are we going to get into heaven now?"

Marilla sighed and turned back to her patch of grass. "Rachel, we will cross that bridge when we get to it. Until then, I suggest that you go find yourself a patch of grass and ponder the fact that we are both naked, and going to get milked this evening by your husband."

Rachel moaned-although it ended up sounding like a drawn-out moo. "Oh, merciful heavens. What are we going to do? This is unacceptable. No, you will simply have to be milked by Matthew. It's only proper."

"Rachel, if you think I'm going to allow my brother-"

"Anne, then."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Rachel, we milk cows every day. They're used to it-there's no reason we should be concerned by the impropriety of milking."

"But we aren't cows! We're-"

Had she been human, one of Marilla's eyebrows would have been steadily rising toward her hairline. "I beg your pardon. I do believe I heard you say mere moments ago that we are cows."

With an exasperated moo, Rachel turned away and trundled towards the fence. Let Marilla stand there and ignore pressing issues-she was going to stand by the road and moo loudly at passers-by, in the hopes that someone would understand her.


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs Von Trapp

Gilbert thumped downstairs that morning, eager to extract the promise of the weekend despite the briskness in the air. He'd been burning the lamp till late and now his lithe young body, too long bent over books, craved the relief of the outdoors. His father would be in the fields already, but his mother would be humming as she heaped a cooked breakfast before him, and yet the kitchen, table laid expectantly, was unaccountably empty.

"Ma?" Gilbert called tentatively.

There was no answer but the echo of his own voice.

"Mother?" Gilbert called louder, searching parlour and guest room, and even sprinting briefly back upstairs.

His confusion grew as he searched vainly outside; at the clothesline heavy with fresh-scented washing attempting to attract the pale winter sun; around to the sty, the pigs rushing at him with noisy impatience; into the barn, to see all was calm and undisturbed.

Dark brows furrowed in something not quite yet panic. He urged logic. Ma could have been called away on an unexpected errand; had searched out Dad in the lower field; had popped over to the Fletchers.

All possible, and yet…

Then, simultaneously, a low, melodious mooing alerted him to their cow, broken loose from her stall, loitering shyly by the gate to the orchard; and two figures waving at him, one rather manically, as they approached through the fields. He stared, stupidly gobsmacked, at the unlikely yet unmistakable apparitions; the tall, slightly stooped, bearded man, and the sprightly, quick-stepping, flame-haired girl.

"Gilbert Blythe," Anne Shirley, pale face infused with high color, began breathlessly, as if she had done so every day of their acquaintance instead of stonewalling him for years with imperious silence.

"Anne… Mr Cuthbert."

"We need your help," she demanded unceremoniously, brandishing an almanac in his face, gabbling about dates, strange happenings and something about cows. He understood the words but their meaning defied all sense, even for Anne Shirley.

He gulped. "I'll try to help… but first I have to tie up our cow. And then find my mother."

Large, luminous grey eyes widened in Anne's annoyingly lovely face, and she exchanged a silent look of wonder with Matthew.

"This is… this is…" Gilbert spluttered, catching Matthew's look of puzzled sympathy and the resolute nod of the redhead.

"We know," she huffed impatiently.

"You believe… _all_the neighbouring women of, ah, a certain age, have been… _magically_… turned into c_ows?_" he looked with trepidation at his own bovine, whose halter he now held, his own hazel eyes staring back up at him forlornly. "You know that's… biologically impossible. Though, perhaps, not such a stretch for Mrs Harmon."

Anne smirked; Matthew barked an amused cough; cow's flank nudged calf's thigh most resolutely.

"Sorry, Ma," he muttered.

"The thing is, what to do until things change back? And _when_might that be?" Anne shrilled.

Gilbert held out long fingers for the almanac, leafing through it in desperation.

"You think it predicts the future?" he asked throatily, locking eyes meaningfully, audaciously, with Anne's.


	5. Chapter 5

Oz Diva

_Carmody Gazette_

_February 31st 18-_

_AVONLEA ALTERATIONS OF A BOVINE BRAND_

_Surprising events have been occurring in the usually quiet hamlet of Avonlea. It appears that housewives have been metamorphosing into bovines. "We don't rightly know what is going on," farmer, Mr Matthew Cuthbert told this reporter. "One moment my sister was out visiting and the next both women had become cows. It's right lonely without her and there's no one to cook my dinner." Similar stories have been repeated all over town._

_Strangely this is not the only bizarre event of the week, the normally reliable Farmers Almanac has also been offering unusual advice, to wit mentions of '_predictive text_' which is scheduled to start '_making suggestions in 2019_.' Whether these two events can be linked may never be known, or at least not until the fabled 2019 when we can believe men may live on the moon._

_More to come…_

* * *

"Goodness, Marilla," Anne gulped as the newspaper fluttered to the ground after she finished her apple. "It's not just you, Mrs Blythe and Mrs Lynde affected, it's all over town." Hanging over the fence, she held her apple core out to Marilla who took it on her long pink tongue and crunched it appreciatively, mixing the deliciously juicy fruit with some grass from one stomach or another. Marilla mooed through the mix, "mooomuuuugrrrrrilllla." Of course, she usually didn't approve of talking with a full mouth but as a cow she spent so much time chewing the cud, there was little time to talk if one obeyed _that_rule. Marilla stamped her back left hoof, swished her tail to disturb the irritating flies and let out a soft moo. She blinked her long dark eyelashes at Anne, gentle amber eyes taking in the sight of her beloved daughter.

A housewife's lot in the 1870s was harsh: up early to milk, the cooking, the laundry, the sweeping, the mopping, the mending – from dawn to dusk, it was never ending. Bovine life was not all bad in comparison; grass was palatable, delicious even and the lack of opposable thumbs rendered housework impossible. All she had to do now was stand around eating. Twice a day Matthew milked her, slightly later than she liked actually. Human Marilla never understood the tight pain of overfull udders; but it was a blessed relief when she felt Matthew's firm but soft hands on her teats, releasing her fresh milk into the bucket. Any embarrassment at being naked in front of her brother, or anyone else, soon dissipated, she was a cow after all.

* * *

"Well hello there Rachel." Thomas Lynde was a straightforward chap, a few weeks ago, the thought of milking his wife might have had sexual overtones, but now it was mere necessity. Rachel was a recalcitrant bovine, however. She would routinely kick over the bucket, spilling the contents into the mud. In fact, he thought, glancing at yet another white stain on the ground, maybe he'd sell her? She was more trouble than she was worth.


	6. Epilogue

OriginalMcFishie

**Epilogue**

_March 25, 2019_

"I thought it was folklore, a hoax the local paper printed."

"So did I, Professor, until I inherited the box with all the information from Dr Gilbert Blythe, he was just a lad when it happened"

"And he was your grandfather?"

"Great grandfather, on my mother's side. That's where I get my middle name."

Ethan Blythe Ford was excited. He loved history and science and putting them together to unravel an 1870 mystery was making his thumbs tingle.

"He worked out what happened," Ethan continued, "but didn't have the technology to prove it, so he wrote it up, carefully packed the tissue samples, and left it a future relative – me – to do the analysis."

"So it was the mould spores in the elixir the local doctor prescribed to women with menopausal symptoms that turned them all into cows? Quite extraordinary," commented the Professor.

"Yes, and of course once they were cows they stopped taking it and spontaneously turned back into women six weeks later when the effects wore off. According to Dr Blythe's notes it caused quite the kerfuffle, all these cows suddenly turning into women – naked – in the fields. One, a Mrs Rachel Lynde – had to walk home seven miles in her birthday suit. She was so angry she walked five miles before she realised she wasn't dressed! Seems her husband had sold her to a local abattoir, and she turned back just in time. Gave the poor lad there quite a shock, but that was nothing compared to what her husband experienced when she returned."

"Divorced him I suppose?"

"Oh no not in those days, he had rather a hard life after that, it says here. Forced to eat meals on the lawn – sometimes made of lawn - unable to leave the house unless in the company of someone trustworthy, that sort of thing."

"Let me look at those results again, "asked the Professor. "Sandwich?" He offered Ethan, "roast beef, my wife's recipe."

"Oh no", responded Ethan, "my family has been vegan since the 1870s. Probably since this happened! I suspect after being cows the women couldn't face cooking meat again. And drinking milk, well it must have just felt wrong."

"Quite, quite", agreed the Professor "What's this?" He asked picking up a small tablet on Ethan's desk.

"Oh" responded Ethan, embarrassed, "I'm planning on going back to Avonlea, thought I'd trace my family roots, set up a hobby farm. It's the latest Farmer's Almanac, all updated, they say, with new Predictive Text, though thats hardly revolutionary for 2019," he joked.

"Ooo let's try it, I've an interest in farming myself you know."

For the next twenty minutes the pair had fun perusing the Almanac.

"What's this?," asked the Professor pointing to a flashing icon in the bottom right of the screen.

"I'm not sure", responded Ethan, "click on it, let's see what happens."

A new screen popped up _"Time -Travel Tips, Skype, Coming 2168._"

The Professor and Ethan looked at each other perplexed. What could it mean?


End file.
